


John's Playlist

by OmalleyMeetsTibbs



Series: Tumblr Posts [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:34:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24649546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmalleyMeetsTibbs/pseuds/OmalleyMeetsTibbs
Summary: John and Sherlock use the language of music.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Tumblr Posts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1782187
Comments: 6
Kudos: 42





	John's Playlist

**Author's Note:**

> This is the very first fic I ever wrote. It's choppy! Be forewarned :)

It had been three months since he saw his best friend flying through the air as he watched helplessly, knowing there was nothing he could do in the moment. Three months since the guilt set in. Three months since he last felt anything but this aching hole in his chest. Three months since he had gone more than a day without a drink in his hand. Three months since his best friend, his truest friend, died. 

He had tried writing out his feelings on his blog, but every time he started, his grief swelled uncontrollably, promising to break apart his ribcage, decimate his sternum, and tear through his flesh till there was a physical representation of the aching hole in his chest. Tonight, he knew that if he didn’t get it out, his gun would. And so he tried the only thing he had left. 

He went upstairs to his bedroom and dug under the bed until he came across the case. He didn’t know why he had kept it, seeing as he hadn’t opened it since school. But he had. He knew his embouchure would be crap, and he had no way to tune it properly; he just hoped that it didn’t matter, that playing his feelings out would help him finally process this pain. So he put his clarinet together, wet his reed, and began with a few notes. It wasn’t as easy as he remembered, but came back to him faster than expected. Tonight, he would only be able to play for a short while, but he would rather look down the barrel of his clarinet than the barrel of his gun. It was a way to honor him as well, his violin symphonies in the middle of the night. It made John feel connected in a way he hadn’t in a long time. So he played. 

The next night, he played again. And the night after, and the night after. Another month past. John felt lucky to have made it this far, and he felt ready. Not to just play, but to compose. So he did. He let out his grief through legato melodies in minor keys, his rage in staccato rhythms. It came so easily and so readily, his emotions swelling over and through instead of ripping him apart. But he knew he would need this song again, but another was already forming. 

John recorded himself playing his first composition and posted it online as a part of a playlist he planned to create. Without thinking through it fully, he added a second track three minutes long of silence, entitled “Sherlock’s Response #1”. 

Over the next year and a half, John wrote a new song every couple of months and added it to the playlist. More songs of grief, but also songs of joy, of mourning, of moving on, of love. And every time he followed it with a silent track for Sherlock. Mary understood. She knew John needed this, knew that he couldn’t give this up even then. 

And then Sherlock returned, and all hell broke loose. John didn’t know, and Sherlock wasn’t going to tell him now. 

John didn’t write, didn’t even play, the entire time leading up to the wedding. He still didn’t play for even a while afterward. His blog was up and running again, and Sherlock was back, why would he want to play when Sherlock’s violin was so much more, more, well just, more. Even when he found out the truth about Mary, he didn’t play. It wasn’t until Rosie. Little Rosie Watson. He had to write something for her. To honor her. To show how much she was loved. How much she meant. And so he played. He played for her till she wouldn’t go to sleep without it. He added “Rosie’s Song” to his playlist, and unthinkingly added a Sherlock’s Response after it as he had always done. He then rearranged it so all of his songs were grouped, with Rosie’s song listed first, and Sherlock’s Responses were all at the end. It wouldn’t do to have three-minute pauses at the end of each of John’s. Now, when other people were babysitting, or John was just too tired, Rosie could still hear him play. They never got through all of John’s songs before she fell asleep. 

Then Mary died, and all hell broke loose. Again. And John still didn’t know, and now Sherlock would never tell him. 

And again, John stopped playing. He couldn’t play. He couldn’t write. He just existed. Existed to the next day. Existed to work. Existed to function, though barely. Existed for Rosie. Rosie ended up relying solely on his recordings until she no longer needed them regularly. But on hard nights, the melodies still were able to rock her to sleep.

Then Sherlock saved him and was back in his life once more. And after Eurus, John knew he was stuck with Sherlock for good. He had seen the way Sherlock found his eyes in the blacked-out mirror of the TV, gaining the strength and look and sound of truth to say “I love you” to Molly. That must have meant something. John wasn’t sure what. But where the aching hole had been before when Sherlock had died, was now replaced with brick. He couldn’t reach out to try to understand now. Sherlock hadn’t confided in him, hadn’t trusted him. How could John trust him with his heart now? But he could trust him with his life. So he moved back into Baker Street with his little Rosie.  


That’s where it happens. Rosie is having a rough night, so John puts on the playlist, not deigning to play in front of Sherlock for fear of that look, the look that says “Really, must you be so inadequately human?” And Rosie listens. She stays awake much longer than normal, as John rocks and bounces her along to the rhythms. She finally falls asleep during the second to last song, and John sits in what had quickly become his chair again. He rests with her on his chest as he listens to her soft, deep, sleepy breathing. He doesn’t notice that the music had stopped playing for a minute or two until he hears a whispered “Brilliant” come from his laptop. He stops short. Until several seconds later he hears the haunting sounds of the violin. It isn’t possible. There was never any indication that anything had been altered on those tracks. He slowly stands, making sure to not disturb Rosie, and looks at his screen. “Now Playing: Sherlock’s Response #2”. John stands frozen in front of his computer, lips pressed into a thin line, blinking furiously to keep back the tears. “Now Playing: Sherlock’s Response #3” and the familiar melody “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” floats from the violin. Before the three minutes are up, he hears Mycroft’s voice sharply, but still somehow gently, say “Happy birthday, John”. For a second, he wonders if Mycroft had been the one playing, but when “Sherlock’s Response #4” begins, he knows it’s really Sherlock playing. No one could make a violin sound quite the same as he could, and John knows the sound intimately. He can’t be fooled. Around “Sherlock’s Response #10”, Rosie’s weight pulls strongly against his arms, and John knows he needs to put her to down. He pauses the songs, takes her to their room, and places her in the cot. When he comes back downstairs, he finds Sherlock looming over the open screen. John walks over and gingerly places his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder to pull him out of his head. He slowly turns his head to look at John from under his lashes, fully expecting to find anger flashing across John’s features. What he finds instead is sadness. 

John softly asks, “Why? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you wouldn’t have heard me,” Sherlock responds softer than a whisper.

A wrinkle appears between John’s eyes, “What do you mean? Of course, I would have!”

“You were in love with Mary. And you didn’t know.” Sherlock says as he takes a half step away from John, with his eyes downcast. John lets his hand fall away. 

“Know what?” Sherlock shakes his head, curls swaying across his forehead.  
“That I had been talking to you the whole time I was away. That I couldn’t _not_ talk to you while I was away. That by you setting up this playlist, you brought me back to life. Allowed me to finished dismantling the web. Allowed me to survive Serbia knowing you knew to care.” Sherlock’s voice rises, though making sure not to wake Rosie. “But you didn’t, you didn’t know, you couldn’t have cared. It was all gone, all lost when I came back, and you didn’t know that I told you and talked to you the whole time I was away.” 

“Every time I added a song, you heard it? And you wrote one back? I haven’t listened to the whole playlist, and not in the proper order.” John licks his lips. “What does it say?”

Sherlock turns back to the computer and presses the last song on the playlist, the sounds of joy and love fill the room intermixed with loss and melancholy. John remembers the last song he wrote was for Rosie, and this was Sherlock’s response to that song. His response was one of love and loss, joy and sadness, hope and resignation. And now John knew.

He tentatively reaches out, finds Sherlock's fingertips, and urges him to turn towards him. Sherlock lets himself turn, but his head remains hanging, not willing to meet John’s eyes. John gives a gentle squeeze to his hand and waits for Sherlock to look up at him. 

When he does, John breathes, “You know, I love you too,” and leans forward so that their foreheads press together, sharing their breath, “Always have.” Tears threaten to spill over the corner of Sherlock’s eyes as he looks into John’s eyes silently asking permission. John nods ever so slightly as Sherlock inhales sharply in a quiet gasp before pressing his lips chastely over John’s. He can’t help but smile against his lips, and they both start chuckling softly, intermittently kissing in-between breaths. Already John hears a new song in his head, clarinet and violin dancing back and forth responding seamlessly to one another full of love, joy, hope, and family; his favorite song by far. 


End file.
